


When the Going Gets Tough, the Tough Escalate the Problem

by Julibean19



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bad Parenting, Biphobia, Daddy Kink, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Meddling, POV Alternating, Secret Relationship, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-19 14:23:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13125534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julibean19/pseuds/Julibean19
Summary: “I didn’t tell you because I knew what you were going to say,” Stiles hedges, shrugging his shoulders.“And what am I going to say?” John challenges, raising his eyebrows.“That he’s too old for me and you hate him.”Peter pushes the screen door open with one hand, the other balancing a perfectly browned quiche.  He’s dressed in a dark blue cashmere sweater and grey slacks.  To Stiles,  he looks like a dream.  To his father, he’s sure to look like his worst nightmare.“He’s too old for you and I hate him,” John says immediately.





	When the Going Gets Tough, the Tough Escalate the Problem

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lavenderlotion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavenderlotion/gifts).



> Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays to my Secret Santa, Brandileeder! It's been so nice getting to know you this year! I hope you enjoy your gift!!!

Lunch is nearing an end and Stiles can almost feel the shift in conversation.  His dad is slowing his words down, nodding to himself as he eats the last few bites of his salad.  

They’ve been having lunch every Thursday since Stiles came home from college.  It’s nice catching up and making sure they take the time to be present in each other’s lives, but Stiles could do without the comments that seem to come at the end of every meal.

“So there’s this girl that works checkout at the market,” John says slowly, tossing his eyes to the side and taking a long sip of his lemonade.  

“No, Dad,” Stiles responds immediately.

“I gave her your number.”

“No, please no,” Stiles groans, rubbing at his temples.  

“Do you want to see a picture?” he asks, reaching for his phone.

“No,” Stiles says again.  “I’m good.”

John sighs, shaking his head.  “You’re not getting any younger, and you never date,” he says, concern furrowing his brow.  “It wouldn’t kill you to bring a nice girl home some time.”

“I’m 22, not 40,” Stiles says sharply.  “And what did we say about pronouns?”

“Sorry, sorry,” John amends.  “A nice  _ person _ home.”

“I’m just focusing on work right now, Dad,” Stiles says, fiddling with the strings of his hoodie.  

He’s been working as a software engineer for a small robotics firm for the last two years and does a little freelance work on the side.  As far as his father knows, he’s been living with Scott.  As far as Scott knows, he has a nice one bedroom in the city that’s just far enough away that he’s never asked to drop by.

At first, it was the age gap that kept Stiles from telling his dad, but now it’s just the fear of rejection.  Not only is he dating a man, but he’s dating an older werewolf that’s had more run-ins with the local law enforcement than can really be explained away.

“Well, her name is Stacey and she might call,” John says, shrugging his shoulders.

“Great,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes.  “Can’t wait.” 

 

* * *

Peter is lounging on the couch with a book open on his chest when Stiles bursts into the apartment, slamming the door behind him.  Eyebrows raised, he waits for his boyfriend to enter the room before deciding if it’s worth getting up or not.  

The disgruntled look on Stiles’ face is enough.

Placing the book facedown on the coffee table, Peter opens his arms and waits for Stiles to burrow into his warmth.  “What’s all this about, darling?” he asks, spreading his legs to make room for Stiles.  

There’s no reaction, so he brings a hand up to scratch the short buzzed hair at the back of Stiles’ neck.  It takes several minutes, but the tension slowly bleeds out of Stiles.  The agitated scent leaves Peter’s nose, but it’s still sour.  That just won’t do at all.  He nudges his nose against Stiles’ temple, pressing a small kiss to his pulse point, giving him a tiny nip until he whines high in his throat.

“Want to talk about it, baby?” he asks softly, rubbing his stubble into Stiles’ smooth cheek.

“Daddy,” Stiles groans by way of an answer, burying his face into the crook of Peter’s throat even further.  

“Don’t make me weasel it out of you,” Peter says, winding his fingers into the back of Stiles’ hair and tugging gently.  “You know I have my ways.”

“Ugh, I don’t want to even think about sex right now,” Stiles mutters, letting Peter pull his head back so they can look at each other.

“Now, that is serious,” he jokes.  Stiles almost never turns down sex.  “Let me guess,” Peter says, lips twisting into a displeased smirk.  “Your dad tried to set you up again?”

“It was so much worse than usual, though,” Stiles says, turning his face to rest his cheek against Peter’s chest.

“Why?”

“He’s just giving my number out to random girls and telling me it’s time to settle down with a ‘nice girl.’  Completely ignoring my sexuality again.”

“I’m sorry, baby,” Peter says, nuzzling into Stiles’ hair.  “Want me to take your mind off it?” he asks, hopeful.  With any luck, Stiles’ bad mood will be short-lived.

“What did you have in mind?” Stiles asks, lifting his head to look Peter in the eye.

“Remember that thing we did last night?” Peter asks, combing his fingers through Stiles’ hair.

“Yeah,” Stiles replies, voice coming out in a breathy exhale.

“Let’s do that again, except this time… I’m gonna tie your hands to the headboard.”

“O-okay,” Stiles says, blinking up at Peter.

“Good,” Peter says, a small smirk crossing his face.  He can smell the arousal on Stiles, how it grows thick in his nose and seems to coat his throat when he inhales.  “Now go get naked and wait on the bed for me face down while I finish this chapter,” he says.

“Yes, Daddy,” he says softly, licking his lips.

Stiles is up in a flash, already pulling off his flannel shirt as Peter chuckles to himself, reaching for his book.

 

* * *

A week later, Stiles finds himself walking into the diner yet again, except this time, there’s a pretty blonde woman sitting across from his father in their usual booth.

“Uhh… hi,” he says, standing at the edge of the table with his thumb hooked in the strap of his messenger bag.  

“Stiles!” his father booms, a wide smile on his face.  “This is Bridgett.  Bridgett,” he says, turning toward the woman, “this is my son,  Stiles.”

“Hi,” she says, blushing and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear before offering her hand.  “I’ve heard a lot about you.  It’s nice to finally put a face to the name.”

“Bridgett’s new to the Sheriff’s Station.  She’s been updating our computer system,” John says, gesturing at the seat next to her as she shifts over to make room for Stiles.

Stiles stares at the booth for a second thinking about how close he’ll have to sit to this woman to fit before his eyes flick back up to his father.  “Dad,” he says, clearing his throat.  “Can I talk to you outside for a minute?”

John’s eyes narrow.  “That would be rude to Bridgett,” he says, smiling again.  “We can talk after lunch.”

“Now, Dad,” Stiles says, straightening his back.  “It was very nice to meet you.  Please excuse us,” he says to Bridgett before stalking out of the restaurant.

“Stiles!” his father calls out, rushing after him.  “Hold on a minute!  She’s into computers and stuff!  I think you’ll really like her!”

“Dad!” Stiles nearly shouts.  He’s this close to losing his shit.  “You have to stop!  You can’t just set me up like this!”

“I don’t know what you expect me to do!” John hisses at him, throwing his hands up in the air.  “You never call any of the girls I introduce you to.  You don’t date.  I just want you to be happy.  Maybe see you with a family of your own one day.”

“I  _ do _ date!” Stiles says, looking up to the sky in frustration.  “I  _ am _ dating!  I have a boyfriend!”

“Since when?” John says, carefully side-stepping over the gender drop.

“Since forever!”  Now he’s really shouting.  “Like literally forever!”  

It’s frustrating.  Stiles and Peter have been solid for years, even when he was away for school and they could only Skype.  Now that he’s back in town, Stiles has never been happier, but this thing with his dad has only escalated and now it’s really gotten out of hand.

“Well, why didn’t you just tell me that?” his father shouts back, sighing heavily and rolling his eyes.

Stiles fights the urge to do the exact same thing.  Often times he feels like the parent but sometimes he’s right back in high school getting a lecture from someone who only half paid attention to him in the first place.  

”Because it’s none of your business who I date!” Stiles says, shoulders rising with rage.  

“I’m your father, of course it’s my business,” John shoots back.  “I want to meet him.”

“Fine!” Stiles shouts, throwing his fists up in the air as he gives his father an indignant frown.  “Saturday at your house.  Brunch,” Stiles demands like he’s making arrangements for a duel.

“Fine!” his father shouts back.  “You bring the beer.”

“Fine!” Stiles calls over his shoulder, stomping back to his Jeep.  

“Come back in and talk to Bridgett!” John shouts after him.  “We haven’t even eaten lunch.”

“You asked her out,” Stiles yells.  “You eat with her!”

He pulls the door open with a screech of metal and wriggles the key until the engine roars to life.  The Jeep sputters, but drives, his tires squealing as he attempts to kick up dust at his father who is still standing on the curb staring at him, mouth open.  Maybe if he’d let Peter buy him a new car his exit would have had more of an effect.

 

* * *

“What did he do this time?” Peter asks the second the apartment door swings open.  He could smell the frustration on Stiles all the way down the hall.  

The door slams shut and Stiles drops his bag heavily by the door, only pausing to kick off his shoes before he collapses into Peter’s lap.  

“It was a set up!” he moans, dropping his forehead to Peter’s shoulder.  “He tried to fucking trap me at the diner with a girl named Bridgett!”

“Was she cute?” Peter asks, lips twitching.

“I’m not playing jealous Daddy with you right now, Peter,” Stiles says, poking him in the side.  

“Are you sure?  Because the last time was pretty hot,” he says, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ back and pulling him in even closer.  “Your ass was so nice and red.  I liked watching you limp around the house in those high socks and nothing else.”

“That’s because you spanked me so raw I couldn’t even wear my underwear,” Stiles mutters, scent bleeding into something like arousal as he reminisces. 

“I know,” Peter purs, letting his hands travel down Stiles’ back to cup his ass.  “I also know that you liked it.  You begged me so nicely, baby.”

“Fuck, Daddy,” Stiles whines when Peter’s fingers brush over the waistband of his jeans and slip lower between his cheeks.  

“Is that what you want, baby?” Peter says into Stiles’ throat, nipping at the cords of muscle there.  “Want me to take you to bed?” he asks, rubbing the dry pad of his middle finger over Stiles’ tight hole.  

Stiles rocks down to meet his hand, tossing his head back and moaning like they hadn’t fucked in the shower that morning.  

“Yeah,” he says, swallowing hard.  “I want that.  Want you to fill me up, Daddy.”

“I can do that,” Peter says, removing his finger and getting a good grip of Stiles’ ass with both hands before standing up and carrying him to the bedroom.  

“He just made me so mad,” Stiles groans as Peter drops him to the bed.  

“Tell Daddy all about it, baby,” Peter says, leaning over Stiles on the mattress to lift the hem of his tee shirt.  

“It’s been years and you’ve been making me so happy and it’s like he never even noticed a difference,” Stiles says, dropping a hand to his forehead and letting his eyes fall closed.  “Like if there’s no photogenic, all-American girl following me around town for all the neighbors to see, it doesn’t count.  If he doesn’t see it then it’s not real.”

“If you’d let me pamper you properly like I wanted, maybe we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Peter mutters, trailing kisses up Stiles’ stomach.  When he reaches Stiles’ chest, he has to push the shirt even higher to get his lips around Stiles’ nipple.  

Stiles groans, and it’s a combination of appreciation for Peter’s attention and annoyance over the argument they’ve been having for the last two years, at least.  

It had been easy for Stiles to accept the gifts when they were small, like clothes, books, and video games.  When Peter started offering to buy him a new laptop and pay off his student loans, it had taken a lot of cajoling and muttered sweet words in the throes of passion.  He’d drawn the line at a new car.  It was too ostentatious and too obvious.  His father would have known something was going on and they had gotten so far keeping their relationship a secret, it had seemed silly to tempt fate.  At least that had been Stiles’ excuse.

“We’re supposed to go to brunch at his house on Saturday,” Stiles says, voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt that he’s fighting to get over his head.  “He wants to ‘meet’ you.”

“Is that all?” Peter says around Stiles’ other nipple.  

“Yes?” Stiles says, sliding his long fingers into the back of Peter’s hair, cupping his head.

“Then be quiet,” Peter says.  “I’m about to do some of my best work and you’re not even paying attention.”

“Sorry,” Stiles says, scratching his nails down the back of Peter’s neck.  

“Sorry, what?” Peter says, raising his head to stare Stiles down.  A flutter of arousal spikes through Peter’s nose and he can see a slight shiver shoot down Stiles’ spine.

“Sorry, Daddy,” he amends, licking his lips.  

“Better,” Peter says, raising his eyebrows.  He watches as Stiles’ expression softens, how his eyes fall closed and his muscles relax.  It takes a full minute, but slowly his baby sinks into his role, preparing himself for what Daddy’s imagination has cooked up.

 

* * *

Stiles steps into his father’s kitchen and holds out a twelve-pack.  “Here you go,” he says, shoulders tense.

“Thanks, kid,” John says, taking the case.  “So where’s this boyfriend of yours?” he asks, sliding the beer into the fridge.

“Getting his quiche out of the car,” Stiles says, tossing his head to the side to indicate the driveway.  

“Stiles,” John says, pinching the bridge of his nose, “tell me that’s not a euphemism for something.”

“No,” Stiles says quickly, forcing out a nervous laugh.  “He’s really getting his quiche out of the car.  I’ve dropped enough of his pies over the years I’m not allowed to carry them anymore.”

“Years?” John says, quirking an eyebrow.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, scratching the back of his neck.  “About four years now.”

“You’ve been dating this man for four years and we’re just meeting now?”

“Well,” Stiles says, eyes darting to the front door nervously.  “You’ve technically met before.”

“I’m confused,” John says, peering around Stiles and back at the door, vying for a glimpse of the mystery man.

“I didn’t tell you because I knew what you were going to say,” Stiles hedges, shrugging his shoulders.

“And what am I going to say?” John challenges, raising his eyebrows.  

“That he’s too old for me and you hate him.”

Peter pushes the screen door open with one hand, the other balancing a perfectly browned quiche.  He’s dressed in a dark blue cashmere sweater and grey slacks.  To Stiles,  he looks like a dream.  To his father, he’s sure to look like his worst nightmare.

“He’s too old for you and I hate him,” John says immediately.

“Hello, Sheriff,” Peter says, holding out his free hand, always a stickler for manners.  “Nice to see you again.”

“What the fuck are you doing here, Hale?”

“Jesus, Dad,” Stiles mutters, rubbing his forehead.  “He’s not going to bite.”

“Is that what this is about?” John asks, eyes narrowing as he flicks his pointer finger between the two men.  “Did he bite you?  I’m getting my gun.”

“No, no,” Stiles says, hands flying upward.  “He didn’t bite me and there will be no firearms at brunch.”

Peter looks to Stiles, expression a cry for help.  

“How about we just sit and eat?” Stiles suggests, gesturing for Peter to slide the quiche onto the kitchen table.  He busies himself with finding a potholder and taking a tray of cooked bacon out of the oven along with some pre-made french toast.  “This doesn’t look like turkey bacon,” he says, scooping the meat onto a plate.

“You can’t deny a man his breakfast meat, son,” John says, lowering himself into a chair while keeping his eyes on Peter.  “Especially not today.  I’m three seconds away from turning in my badge for a homicide charge.”

“There’s pancetta in the quiche,” Peter offers lightly, sitting down opposite John.

“What?” John asks, forehead furrowing.  

“The quiche,” Peter says again, picking up a server to cut into the perfectly crimped crust.  “It’s pancetta, goat cheese, and leek.”

“Uhh…” John says, tilting his head to the side as he considers this.

“I like to bake,” Peter says mildly, taking a plate off a stack on the table and serving up a slice for John.

“You bake,” John repeats.  It’s not a question, but Peter answers it anyway.

“Yes,” he says, a hesitant smirk playing on his lips.  “I bake.”

Stiles slips into the seat beside his father and gives Peter a reassuring look.  “He also edits novels for a publishing house.”

“A huh,” John says, stabbing his fork into his quiche with more force than is really necessary, eyes still leveled on Peter.  

It’s been years of teasing and bravado between them, teasing touches and sharp orders.  Stiles has never seen Peter this nervous.  He’s looking down at his plate and picks at a piece of french toast, shoulders up near his ears.  

Stiles catches his eye and nods his head toward his father, prompting Peter to at least try to keep up a conversation.  

Peter just jerks his head slightly to the side, saying no.

Huffing out a sigh, Stiles attempts to turn the so far disastrous meal around.  “We’re thinking about taking a trip next month.  Maybe Italy,” Stiles says, hoping the cheeriness in his voice doesn’t sound too fake.  

“Italy?” John asks, still looking skeptically at the pair.

“Peter speaks fluent Italian,” Stiles says, shooting his partner a wink.  

Not wanting to add anything, Peter just shrugs his shoulders.

Stiles has absolutely no idea where this attitude came from, but it’s starting to worry him.  He expected Peter to be polite, but natural.  It’s odd, but he can’t exactly ask what the problem is with his father staring them down like a firing squad.  

“Well also French and German,” Stiles says with a smile toward John, shaking off the odd display from his boyfriend.  “So maybe we’ll do a few countries over the summer.”

John’s eyes narrow even further as he takes in their nervous postures and fleeting looks.  “Alright, cut the crap,” he says finally, frowning.  “You guys are terrible at this.”

“At what?” Stiles asks, a piece of bacon halfway to his mouth.

“Pretending to be dating,” John says, waving his hand between them.  “You could have at least tried to be convincing.  Hale here looks like he’s about to die of embarrassment,” he adds, almost laughing.  

“Dad, we’re actually dating.  This isn’t a joke,” Stiles says, words clipped.  He’s sick of his father’s refusal to take anything in his life seriously.  He’s not going to stand for such flippancy over something so important.

“How much did he have to pay you to get you here?” John asks, chuckling now as he looks at Peter.  “I bet your company doesn’t come cheap, Hale.”

“He didn’t pay me,” Peter says, voice cold.  He straightens his shoulders and sits up tall, mouth set in a firm line.

“Did you lose a bet or something?” John asks, lifting his coffee mug for a sip.  “Because this is just sad.  You’re not even trying.”

“What are you talking about?” Stiles says, shooting his father an indignant look.

“You haven’t touched each other once since you came in here,” his father says, shaking his head.  “You’re supposed to be in love but you’re not even sitting next to each other.  Hale’s about to crawl out of his skin just to get away from you.  This isn’t the least bit convincing,” John says.

“Dad,” Stiles says, jaw clenched.  “Peter and I have been dating for  _ years _ .  We’re not messing with you.  We were trying to be respectful and not too touchy.  I thought you’d appreciate me not throwing  _ the gay  _ in your face.”

“Yeah, right,” John huffs, just short of rolling his eyes.

“What did you want me to do?  Fuck him right here on the table?” Stiles shouts, waving his hands emphatically.

“Christ, Stiles,” John groans, squeezing his eyes shut.  “I want you to stop lying to me!  If you didn’t want to date Bridgett, all you had to do was say so.  You didn’t have to come here with some cock and bull story about your fake boyfriend.”

“He’s not my fake boyfriend!” Stiles shouts, leaping out of his chair.

“No,” Peter says finally, drawing their attention.  “I’m his  _ real  _ fiancé.”

The room goes quiet except for the hissing and gurgling of the automatic coffee pot.  Stiles’ eyes go wide as he watches Peter pull away from the table to get down on one knee on his father’s dirty kitchen floor.

“Peter, babe,” Stiles says, voice shaking.  “You don’t have to do this.  Not now.  Not to prove a point.”

“Enough with the showboating,” John says, annoyance settling on his face.  “You can cut the act now.  Get up, Hale.”

“I’m not getting up,” Peter says, reaching into his pocket.  “I’m perfectly serious.”

“Peter,” Stiles says, voice catching.  “What—”

“Stiles,” Peter says, voice pitched low as he produces the small box.  He opens it, turning it outward to show off a brushed band enclosed on either side with a row of tiny, tasteful diamonds.  “Will you marry me, baby?”

“Daddy?” he asks, mouth dropping open as he takes in the view.  The ring is perfect and Peter looks wonderful, blue eyes blazing, soft cashmere sweater so warm and touchable.  

“What, Stiles?” his father says, looking between them, squinting in confusion.  “If you’re looking for my blessing, you’re not going to get it.”

“He’s talking to me,” Peter says, a smirk spreading across his face.

“He’s—what?” John says, dropping his coffee mug on the table with a clunk.  

“Really, Daddy?” Stiles asks again, eyes damp.  

“Of course, baby,” Peter says, pulling the ring out of its box and holding it out to Stiles.  “I haven’t been carrying this thing around for months just for show.”

“Oh my God,” Stiles chokes, taking the ring quickly and sliding it onto his finger.  “Yes!”  

Peter surges up off the floor as Stiles leans down to kiss him, wrapping him up tight in his arms.  They start off chaste, but it heats up very quickly, Stiles moaning into an open-mouthed kiss.  This is what Stiles expected from Peter, not the timid delicacy of someone sidestepping around someone else’s prejudices.  

This Peter is his, possessive and demonstrative, ready to show the whole world who Stiles belongs to.

“Oh my God,” he hears John echo behind them.  

Stiles can’t stop himself.  He tunes his father out and steps in closer, lining his body up with Peter’s until they can rock against each other.  “Fuck, Daddy,” he groans, letting Peter trail kisses down his throat.  Tipping his head back, Stiles presses in tight, hitching his hips forward to find that Peter is hard against him.

“Jesus Christ, Stiles!” John shouts, trying to draw their attention.  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“You just said we weren’t touching enough,” Stiles points out, looking at his father over his shoulder while Peter mauls his throat, a smug smirk on his face.

“I take it back!” John yells.  “You can’t just do that in my kitchen!”

“You can’t have it both ways,” Stiles says, raising his eyebrows.  

Peter bites down on Stiles’ pulse point particularly hard and Stiles gasps.  “Fuck, Daddy!”

“I’m leaving!” John shouts, throwing his hands up in the air.  “I can’t listen to this anymore!”

“Fine,” Stiles says, fighting down a smile even as a moan builds up in his throat.  “Promise me you’ll never set me up again and we’ll elope!”

“Deal!  Send me a fucking postcard!” John calls in parting, bustling out the door and slamming it behind him.

“I can’t believe you did that!” Stiles groans, eyes falling closed as Peter licks a trail back over to his mouth.  “You’re a fucking menace!”

“I didn’t hear you complaining when you put that ring on your finger,” Peter tells him, pulling him in even tighter by the hips.  

“Shut up and fuck me on this table,” Stiles says, turning around in his arms and reaching to unbuckle his belt.  

“Ask nicely,” Peter says, blue eyes sparkling as he watches Stiles’ jeans drop to the floor.

“Daddy, will you please fuck me over my father’s kitchen table,” Stiles says, hitting the k in fuck with extra emphasis.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Peter says with a wolfish grin.  He puts a palm on Stiles’ upper back and pushes until he’s leaning over, palms flat on the table.  

Fingers slide into the waistband of Stiles’ tiny briefs, tugging them down just far enough for Peter to reach his hole.  A few seconds later, there’s blunt pressure against him, hot and perfect and slick somehow.  Stiles moans into it, letting Peter breach him.  The force rocks him forward, nearly pitching him over their abandoned meal.

“Watch the quiche,” Stiles mutters, one hand flying to the back of Peter’s head to pull him close.  “It’s too good to go to waste.  I’m going to eat the fuck out of that later.”

“If you’re good, I’ll eat the fuck out of you instead, baby.”

“That,” Stiles groans as Peter bottoms out.  “Yeah… let’s do that.”


End file.
